The Secret Warning

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Don’t know. I was wondering the same thing,” Frank replied. “You know, I have a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

  “Me too. I thought his face seemed sort of familiar.”

  Neither of the Hardys could explain the impression.

  “Well,” Frank said, “we’d better get in touch with Dad and then get a bite to eat. I could sure use a couple of hamburgers.”

  Sighting a drugstore on the next corner, the boys went inside where Frank phoned their father. Mr. Hardy readily approved of his sons’ action.

  “Don’t worry, you and Joe used good judgment,” he said. “The Philadelphia Airport angle strikes me as a good omen, too.”

  “How so, Dad?”

  “There are only a few private collectors in the eastern United States who might be avid enough and rich enough to buy something like the gold Pharaoh’s head, even if it was stolen,” the detective explained. “The two most likely purchasers live within fifty miles of Philadelphia. That’s why Sam and I have been concentrating on this area.”

  “Sure hope this lead pays off,” Frank said. “What’s our next move, Dad?”

  Fenton Hardy instructed the boys to take the letter with the key to La Guardia Airport and leave it with a friend who worked for one of the airlines. Sam Radley, he went on, would fly there, pick up the envelope, and bring it back to Philadelphia.

  Frank asked, “Does that mean Sam won’t be coming to Bayport this afternoon?”

  “I may need his help on this new development with Zufar,” Mr. Hardy said. “Anyhow, I’ve made a slight change of plans for you fellows.” Excited, Frank signaled Joe close to the receiver.

  “The Crux Diving Company’s salvage ship is leaving New York today to begin operations on the Katawa. Captain Rankin has agreed to take you and Joe along and drop you on Whalebone Island.”

  The vessel would be close at hand in case of emergency, the detective added. They could pursue the Jolly Roger’s mystery and keep in touch with the salvage operations.

  “That’s great, Dad!” said Frank. “But wouldn’t it be better if we had the Sleuth along with its radio?”

  After a hasty discussion, they decided that Joe would board the Crux ship alone. Frank would return to Bayport, get Chet and the Sleuth, and then proceed to Whalebone Island.

  After a quick lunch at a coffee shop, the Hardys split up. Frank headed for La Guardia Airport, while Joe went straight to the pier where the Crux ship, Petrel, lay berthed.

  The dock was bustling with activity as supplies were loaded aboard. Joe hurried toward the gangplank to announce himself to the deck officer.

  A heavy oil drum, slung from a cargo hook, was just being hoisted from the pier. Joe passed underneath as the boom swung inward toward the ship’s hold.

  “Hey! Watch it!”

  Joe whirled at the sudden cry of alarm. In that instant the oil drum plunged straight toward his head!

  CHAPTER XIII

  A Lost Anchor

  As JOE whirled around, somebody rammed him hard. He reeled backward under the impact, and together with his tackler sprawled on the dock as the oil drum crashed inches from them.

  “Sufferin’ snakes!” Stunned, Joe sat up limply. His thumping pulse almost blurred out the ensuing shouts and confusion.

  The man who had rescued him—a husky, middle-aged six-footer in dungarees—called over reassuringly, “Take it easy, lad. No harm done.” He got up nimbly and helped Joe to his feet.

  “Thanks. . . thanks a lot,” Joe gasped. “You saved my life.”

  The man’s freckled face broke into a grin. “Maybe you saved mine. I was rushing across the dock and had to slow down when you got in my way. If you hadn’t, I’d have been right under that drum myself!”

  Meantime, stevedores had captured the dented rolling drum and were wrestling it back into position while a crewman examined the hoisting sling.

  The captain shouted wrathfully from the ship, “How’d it happen, bos’n?”

  “Chine hook seems to have fractured, sir! Never seen one give like that before!” Red-faced, the bos’n aimed a torrent of salty comments at the loading crew for not having spotted the cracked hook when they rigged the sling.

  “You there, young fellow!” the captain called down to Joe. “You one of Fenton Hardy’s boys, by any chance?”

  “Yes, sir! I’m Joe Hardy—my brother won’t be making the trip.” Accompanied by his rescuer, Joe mounted the gangplank and shook hands with the tall, lean officer.

  “Welcome aboard! I’m Captain Rankin. Sorry about the accident.”

  “Guess I should’ve kept a sharper eye out.”

  “Cargo handling can be as dangerous as salvage work sometimes,” the skipper acknowledged. “This bucko who saved you, by the way, is our master diver, Roland Perry. He’s used to danger. That’s how his hair got so thin.”

  Perry chuckled and touched the sun-bleached reddish fuzz on his freckled pate. “Don’t believe him, Joe. It’s the chow they serve and the hard time he gives us salvage boys that made my hair fall out.”

  Joe laughed, and soon he and Perry were engaged in friendly conversation. The diver had first learned his trade at the Navy’s Deep-Sea Diving School in Washington, D. C.

  Late that afternoon, the ship, secured for sea after loading, churned away from its pier. Captain Rankin allowed Joe to come up on the bridge and watch as they sailed out through the busy waters of the Port of New York.

  The next day Perry gave Joe a guided tour of the Petrel. The steel salvage vessel, he explained, was of a type specially designed by the Navy for offshore salvage work and carried equipment for handling any imaginable marine emergency.

  Its electronic gear included radio, radar, loran, radiotelephone, fathometer, and radio direction finder. On its main deck was a salvage workshop with a forge, welding machine, lathe, pipe-threading machine, and various other equipment. In the engine room was a complete machine shop.

  “Our towing engine has a forty-thousand-pound-line pull capacity—we can make lifts over the bow sheaves up to a hundred and fifty tons,” Perry went on proudly. “We can pump more than a million gallons of water an hour—furnish electric power to a disabled vessel—and there are two miles of steel cable in our wire stowage room.”

  “Wow! Some setup!” said Joe, much impressed.

  The diver chuckled. “We’re really a floating construction warehouse. We carry everything from nuts and bolts to a concrete mixer—not to mention timbers for making patches to seal off holes in ships’ hulls.”

  Joe was fascinated when Perry showed him the diving locker, forward on the main deck. It held several sets of diving suits, scuba gear, submarine telephone equipment, underwater burning torches, and a full stock of spare parts.

  “Does Captain Rankin boss the diving operations?” Joe asked.

  “No. When we reach the salvage scene, Matt Shane, our salvage master, takes over. Under him is a salvage foreman, myself, my tender, a pump engineer, a carpenter, and nine wreckers—the specialized salvage workers, that is.”

  It was nightfall when the Petrel reached curving Whalebone Island and dropped anchor in the cove. Another ship—which Joe recognized immediately as the Simon Salvor—was lying to the southward. But the Salvor was now in a different position from where it had been when the Hardys first visited the island.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing?” Joe asked, scanning the Salvor through field glasses.

  “Good question, son.” Matt Shane, the grizzled salvage master, chewed thoughtfully on his pipe. “There’s no wreck in that area, or we’d know about it. Salvage men keep pretty close tabs on such matters.”

  Roland Perry growled, “Something phony about them being here, if you ask me. Could be they came to throw a monkey wrench into our operations. I wouldn’t put anything past Bock!”

  “Take it easy, Rollie,” said Shane.

  Joe was startled by the mention of the Simon Salvage Company diver. “Do you know Gus Bock, Rollie?” he asked.<
br />
  “Do I know him?” Perry snorted. “We were shipmates once on a tin can, the Svenson. Later on, we went through Navy diving school together. When we finally got out of service, we worked for the same salvage outfit. I actually thought we were buddies—till the time I caught him trying to split my air hose!”

  The incident had occurred when both men were on the bottom, searching for a sealed cashbox aboard a sunken hulk.

  “You could’ve been mistaken, Rollie,” Shane cautioned. “Just because he had his knife in his hand—”

  “I tell you I saw him going for my air line! He’s a slimy shark, that Bock!”

  Joe put in, “If you were on the Svenson with him, you must have served under Captain Phil Early.”

  The diver nodded. “For a while, right at the end of the war. The skipper was transferred to another command a few months after I joined the ship. Good old Pearly Early!”

  “How’d he get that nickname?” Joe asked with a grin. “From his first initial and last name?”

  “That was part of it.” Perry chuckled. “Ever been in Greece?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Over there, you’ll see Greek men fussing with what they call ‘worry beads.’ They carry these beads and finger them all the time. Captain Early did the same thing—only he used pearls.”

  “Real ones?” Joe asked in surprise.

  “Sure, he collected them. Had some beauties he’d picked up in the South Pacific. In fact, when he was transferred, the crew gave him a cane—”

  “A cane?” Joe cut in. “How come?”

  “To carry the pearls in. The handle unscrewed, you see, and there was a hollow space inside. It was specially made, and handsomely carved by our old quartermaster.”

  Joe’s brain was in a whirl, thinking of the burglary attempts.

  “What’s the matter, lad?” Matt Shane asked, noticing his odd reaction.

  “Funny coincidence. Captain Early’s a family friend of ours, and I’ve seen that cane. In fact, he left it at our house.”

  Since there was no sign of a campfire on the island or any light in the Whalebone tower, it was apparent Frank and Chet had not yet arrived, so Joe did not ask to be put ashore.

  At daybreak the next morning, when he awoke in his bunk, Joe heard the muted throb of the ship’s engines and sounds of frenzied activity on deck. He hurried topside to see what was going on.

  In the water nearby was one of the ship’s life-boats. While two seamen rowed it slowly, Roland Perry peered over the gunwale into a glass-bottomed box, which enabled him to see the shallow ocean floor.

  “What’s Rollie doing?” Joe asked Shane.

  “Looking for our bower anchor. We lost it during the night.”

  “Good grief!” Joe exclaimed. “How’d that happen?”

  Shane grinned wryly. “That’s what the old man would like to know.”

  Joe could see Captain Rankin standing on the wing of the bridge, tight-jawed with fury over the mishap.

  After a while Perry located the anchor. Donning scuba gear, he went down to reconnect the anchor to its chain. By the time the job was completed, almost half the morning had been spent.

  “Someone took apart the detachable link on the swivel shot of the chain!” Rollie explained to Joe after returning topside.

  “But who?”

  “Who do you think?” the diver retorted with an angry scowl seaward at the Simon Salvor. “It could only have been done by a frogman. Captain Rankin has already been on the radio to the Salvor, but all he got was a horselaugh.”

  Joe mulled over the mystery. Were Gus Bock and his mates responsible for the loss of the anchor —or had someone else been the saboteur and swum out from the island under cover of darkness? If the latter was the case, Joe reflected, Red Rogers’ “ghost” might have returned to Whalebone!

  Much as he would have liked to watch the search for the Katawa get under way, Joe asked to be put ashore. He waved good-by from the cove as the Petrel sailed out around the island toward the scene of the sinking. Then he began to scout cautiously for possible traces of another occupant on Whalebone.

  Shortly before noon Joe heard the put-put of a motorboat engine. He dashed to the cove in time to see Frank and Chet just beaching the Sleuth.

  “Hi, you guys!” Joe shouted to them.

  “Hi, Joe!”

  “What cooks, Robinson Crusoe?” Chet asked.

  “Not lunch, if that’s what you were hoping,” Joe replied with a grin. “How come it took you so long to get here?”

  Frank explained that Chet had been unable to leave until late Saturday afternoon. “I figured we could stop off overnight at Captain Early’s, but he wasn’t home so we had to sleep on the beach.”

  “Did you bring the captain’s cane?” Joe asked, his voice suddenly tense.

  “Sure, I wanted to give it back to him, but—say, what’s so special about that cane?”

  As Frank and Chet stared in surprise, Joe told what he had learned about the captain’s collection of pearls and the hollow receptacle in the cane. “That’s what the burglar must have been after all the time!”

  Frank hastily fished the cane out of the Sleuth. Sure enough, a metal ring showed where the cane came apart in two pieces!

  Joe and Chet watched eagerly as he unscrewed the handle, then peered into the hollow.

  “Well—?”

  Frank turned the cane barrel upside down and shook it. “Empty. The pearls are gone!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  A Cave Clue

  A DISMAYED silence followed Frank’s discovery that the captain’s cane was empty.

  Then Chet spoke up. “Are you sure the pearls were in there?”

  “All I know,” Joe said, “is what Roland Perry told me—that the captain collected pearls and his crew had that cane specially made for him to keep them in. Besides, don’t you remember last Tuesday after his house was broken into, he said there was nothing in it of value except the silver?”

  “If you’re right,” Frank said thoughtfully, “whoever broke into our place Thursday night must have had time to remove the pearls before Tivoli attacked him!”

  “Sure,” Joe reasoned, “and that would explain the mystery of what our intruder was after.”

  Gloomily Frank screwed the cane together again. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll just have to tell Captain Early as soon as we get in touch with him.”

  Frank put the cane back in the boat and began unloading sleeping bags, supplies, and scuba gear. “First of all, let’s lug this stuff over to the lighthouse. We can use that as our base.”

  “Fine,” Joe agreed. “And we’d better hide the Sleuth again, too—just in case.”

  The boys could not carry the entire load in a single trip, so after leaving Chet at the tower to prepare lunch, the Hardys returned to the cove for the remainder of their gear. Then the three ate with hearty appetites all the frankfurters and beans which Chet dished out, sizzling, on tin plates.

  Afterward, Frank proposed another systematic search of the island. “If that fake ghost stayed here,” he pointed out, “we ought to be able to find some evidence.”

  “Good idea,” Joe said.

  Starting out from the headland, the boys began slowly working their way around the shore of the entire crescent-shaped island.

  They found no trace of other boat landings, so they started combing the inland areas.

  “Hey! Fresh water!” Joe announced as they came to a tiny spring trickling out of a hillside. Hot and perspiring from the trek, he cupped his hands and bent down to scoop up a drink.

  Chet couldn’t resist some fun. “How about a good face-wash, too?” Gleefully he gave Joe a prod with the toe of his sneaker.

  With a cry of surprise, Joe tried to catch his balance. No luck. He lurched forward, lost his footing, and plunged headfirst out of sight into a mass of brush on the other side of the spring.

  “Hey! Where’d he go?” Chet exclaimed. He and Frank ran to the spot
where Joe had vanished. Up popped a blond head through the thick vegetation.

  “Look here!” Joe shouted, beckoning excitedly. “I landed in a cave. Come on. Let’s look this over.”

  All three crowded into the well-concealed cavern mouth and Frank took out a flashlight. Its beam revealed a cavity about twenty feet in length.

  “Oh—oh!” Joe gasped. “Someone has been here, all right!” He pointed to the charred remnants of a cooking fire. Nearby was a scatter of small bird bones and rusty food cans.

  “Boy, this place gives me the willies!” Chet muttered.

  As Frank played his light upward from the floor, the boys saw a series of whitish marks on the wall of the cave—evidently scratched there with a piece of limestone.

  “Tally marks!” said Frank. The scratches were in groups of six, each group crossed with a seventh line. “Whoever stayed here must have kept count of the days and weeks that way.”

  “Wow!” Chet said. “He must have lived here quite a while!”

  Frank nodded. “Yes, but from the looks of things, it must have been a long time ago, so he couldn’t have been the ‘ghost’ who tried to blow us up.”

  “You’re right,” Joe said. “Still, this might explain the spook that drove the lighthouse keeper Tang out of his mind.”

  “Could be,” Frank agreed. “Maybe some fugitive from the law hid out here.”

  “Or some hermit,” Joe added, “who only wanted to get away from it all.”

  Chet shuddered. “Imagine being alone at night in that lighthouse with some creep prowling around.”

  “You think about it,” Joe quipped. “It’ll give you food for thought when we turn in tonight, in place of your usual bedtime snack.”

  “Cut it out,” Frank advised, grinning, “or all three of us may start seeing things.”

  By the time the adventurers pushed their way back through the entrance of the gloomy hideout, it was late in the afternoon, and gathering clouds in the southwest hid the sun. The boys marked the location of the cave with a stake, which Chet drove into the sand. Then they decided to cruise out to the Petrel before supper to check on the progress of the salvage operations.